Chapter 25 Seraphine
By the time the cab dropped us off in front of my building, it was nearly two in the morning. I had one shoe dangling off my foot, my hair half falling out of its ponytail, and Amara… well, Amara was happily singing some off-key pop song as she leaned heavily on my shoulder.
“No more tequila,” I muttered, dragging the both of us up the stairs.
“No promises,” she slurred cheerfully.
My apartment door clicked open and Amara stumbled straight toward the couch. The second she sat, she grimaced like she’d just stepped on a Lego.
“This couch,” she declared dramatically, “was forged in Hell.”
“It’s not that bad.”
She collapsed backward. “Seraphine. I can feel the springs conspiring against my spine.”
I laughed, grabbing a bottle of water and tossing it to her. “Bed it is.”
We both fell into my bed still fully dressed, shoes half on, makeup smudged. The second my head hit the pillow, the room spun once.
Then everything went black.
\---
Eight A.M.
The sound dragging me out of unconsciousness felt like a chainsaw.
My phone.
Buzzing. Loud. Again. And again.
I groaned and flopped an arm toward the nightstand, knocking over a water bottle, a pen, and what I prayed wasn’t lipstick.
Amara mumbled something against my arm. “Kill whoever that is.”
“I might.”
The caller ID said UNKNOWN NUMBER.
My heart jerked.
Unknown meant:
Stephen.
Hospital.
Emergency.
I sat up too fast and nearly fell out of bed.
“Hello?” I croaked.
A deep, polished voice answered.
“Miss Vale. This is Thomas Townsend.”
I sobered instantly.
Townsend.
My boss’s boss’s boss.
The man who owned half the Chronicle, and possibly my soul if I ever sold it for healthcare benefits.
“Good morning, sir,” I said quickly, trying to smooth my hair with one hand even though he couldn’t see me. “How can I help you?”
There was no warmth in his tone — just professional steel.
“I need you to tell me everything that happened yesterday.”
My stomach dropped.
Completely.
Yesterday.
The elevator.
Brantley.
The message.
Oh hell.
“I—yes. Of course.” My voice shook despite my best efforts.
I explained everything. Every detail. Every word my boss had said.
I even repeated the disgusting proposition.
Townsend didn’t interrupt once.
When I finished, he exhaled sharply. “And the message he sent you last night—do you still have it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Forward it to my personal email immediately.”
I scrambled out of bed, opened the message, screenshot it, and typed faster than I ever had in my life.
Send.
A moment later, through the phone, I heard another voice — someone in the background — murmur sharply:
“Fire him.”
My throat closed.
Townsend spoke again. “Miss Vale, thank you. I apologize deeply for what you’ve been subjected to. This is not how I run my companies, and this behavior will not be tolerated.”
My knees went weak. I sat on the edge of the bed.
“I… thank you, sir.”
“Take the rest of the day off,” he continued. “If anyone contacts you — including Brantley — I want you to call me directly.”
“I will.”
“Have a good morning, Miss Vale.”
He hung up.
I stared at the phone for a long moment.
Then Amara’s sleepy voice mumbled from under the blanket.
“Who was that?”
“Townsend,” I breathed. “My boss’s boss’s boss.”
She sat up like she’d been electrocuted, hair sticking out in five different directions. “THE Thomas Townsend? Billionaire Townsend? Looks-like-he-eats-goldbars Townsend?”
“That’s the one.”
She blinked. “And why is he calling you at eight a.m.?”
I swallowed.
“Because Dante handled it.”
“So,” she said, a mischievous gleam in her sleepy eyes, “are we gonna talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
She snorted. “Don’t play dumb. Dante Vescari has entered the chat. And the man does not enter quietly.”
I groaned. “Amara—”
“No, no,” she said, sitting up straight and pushing her hair back dramatically. “I need you to understand how insane this is. Do you know how many women in this city would sell their souls for Dante fucking Vescari to look at them? And he’s looking at you like you hung the damn moon.”
“He is not—”
“Oh he is,” she cut in. “Seraphine, I’ve seen exhausted poodles more indifferent than that man was last night. He was practically vibrating in his seat staring at you.”
My face burned. “He wasn’t—”
“Oh hush. I know a man ready to burn the world down when I see one. And that man? Would absolutely bury a body for you.”
“That’s not romantic—”
“It is if you’re into mafia men,” she countered. “Which clearly, you are.”
“I am not.”
“Babe,” she said, dead serious, “you literally survived a mafia king showing up on your date, stalking you across the bar, dragging you out of the bathroom, and threatening vengeance on your behalf—and you STILL let him hug you.”
I froze.
She had a point.
“…fuck,” I whispered.
“Exactly.” She grinned. “So, let’s talk options. Have you considered becoming a mafia wife?”
I choked. “Stop.”
“No, think about it! You’d look hot in a mansion. You could wear silk robes, expensive lingerie, hold a wine glass like a trophy, maybe casually threaten politicians—”
“Amara—”
“—and when someone pisses you off,” she continued, dramatically flicking her wrist, “bam. Icing people.”
“I’m not icing anyone.”
“You could,” she said confidently. “Oh, you absolutely could. You have main-character ‘don’t test me’ energy. Slap on a pair of black gloves and boom—instant queenpin.”
I covered my face. “I hate you.”
“Liar,” she said with a smug smile. “You love me and you know it.”
I dropped my hands and gave her a look. “He’s dangerous, Amara.”
“Yeah,” she said easily. “So are blow dryers in bathtubs. Still tempting.”
I barked a laugh despite myself.
“And he’s… intense,” I said slowly.
“Oh trust me,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows, “we all saw that. The man looks like he bench presses people for fun.”
“Amara!”
“He’s hot,” she insisted. “Tall, rich, tattooed, dangerous, broody—Seraphine, he’s like every mafia romance book rolled into one sinful package. If you don’t climb him like a jungle gym, I might.”
“No you won’t.”
She grinned wickedly. “Jealous already?”
I threw a pillow at her.
She dodged it, laughing. “Seriously though,” she added more softly, “Dante likes you. He didn’t even try to hide it. Men like him don’t… look at people like that unless it means something.”
I stared at her.
She wasn’t teasing now.
She meant it.
And that terrified me more than Brantley, Ted, the missing women—
more than anything.
I took a shaky breath.
“…Amara?”
“Yeah?”
“You up for mimosas for breakfast?”
She shot upright like she’d been tasered.
“SERAPHINE. I will get dressed faster than the speed of light.”
I laughed, finally—
for real.
Maybe today wouldn’t destroy me.